A Determined Helping Hand
by Time Traverser
Summary: Theodore Roosevelt can see that he has a lot of work to do. Semi-historical. Rated T because I felt like it and NO ROMANCE!
1. Chapter 1

Vice President Theodore Roosevelt removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of one hand. He glanced at the small clock sitting on his office's mantle to see that it was just after midnight.

Placing the small glasses back on the bridge of his nose, he moved to pick up his pen, and promptly knocked his inkwell over, ruining the papers he'd been working on for the past couple of hours.

 _'_ _Perhaps this is a sign that I should retire for the night,'_ he thought a bit ruefully as he surveyed the damage done to his sleeve. Only now did he realize how thirsty he was, and decided that a glass of water would serve him well.

Thusly decided, Roosevelt stood and made for the door. The kitchens were just down the stairs, if he remembered correctly.

* * *

"You're _leaving_?" a furious voice demanded. "B-...But you can't!"

 _"_ _Watch me."_

Roosevelt stopped just beyond the kitchen entrance to observe the hushed argument happening between the president's personal secretary and what appeared to be one of the many interns that roamed the halls during the day.

"You're not going anywhere." George Cortelyou folded his arms with an air of finality. "I won't allow it."

The bespectacled young man turned away, stuffing an assortment of bread, fruits, and dried meat into an old rucksack. " _You_ don't have the authority to order me around, Georgie."

"McKinley does. I'll go wake him up right now and you'll never be able to leave here, again."

"I'll be gone before he even has his slippers on," the blond retorted flatly. "He can't order me around if I'm not here."

"Why, you-!"

"It's not as though he'll actually care," the lad continued, his voice almost too old for his age. "Everyone like him-Hell, even _I_ like the guy for his personality. But he doesn't listen to me. Thinks he's got all the answers in the damn world while I'm practically screaming into his ear that everything is _not alright_. I'm wasting my time, here."

The secretary was working his jaw, but no words came out. Roosevelt had never seen the eloquent man at such a loss for words, before. The mysterious young man turned away sharply, slinging his sack over his shoulder. In his retreat, he bumped straight into the curious Vice President, who hadn't thought to move away from the door.

Roosevelt staggered back slightly at the unexpected impact. "Apologies, er…"

An enigmatic smile. "Alfred F. Jones, Mister Vice President. Don't plan on seeing me again."

Cortelyou regained the ability to speak, and made a grab for the boy's collar. "Wait!"

Jones quickly pushed past Theodore and _faded_ into the shadowed hall. The robust man blinked a few times into the darkness, not quite willing to believe his eyes. _'_ _I must be more tired than I thought.'_

George Cortelyou reared on Roosevelt angrily. _"_ _Why did you let him get away?"_

The Vice President frowned. "There are plenty of interns-we have neither a reason nor the right to keep this one here."

"You don't-…You don't know," the secretary realized. "No one ever told you…" He pinched his nose in exasperation, and made a small noise of frustration. "That wasn't an intern!"

"Then who was it?" Theodore asked, wondering whose desertion could possibly cause such vexation in the usually composed man.

 _"_ _You just let the United States of America leave the White House!"_

* * *

 **And thus begins another semi-historical, multi-chapter undertaking of mine. That conflict that the last few historical one-shots have been hinting at? THIS…IS…IT.**

 **HISTORICAL NOTES-**

 **The Vice President lived in the White House up until Walter Mondale and Jimmy Carter's administration. So yes, Theodore Roosevelt would've lived in the White House even before becoming the President.**

 **President William McKinley and his administration was, by most accounts, very well-liked. However he was also very friendly to big business and monopolies (Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, and J.P. Morgan) at a time when America desperately needed social and labor reforms. So I figure that America would pick up and kind of latch onto this because he was becoming** ** _very_** **heavily industrialized by now, and more acutely feeling the effects of industry on his lands and people.**

 **So...yea? Nay? Tell me in a review!**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	2. Chapter 2

"So really, it's-"

A shot rang out, cutting off the president mid-sentence. Crimson blossomed on his white shirt as he stumbled and fell. Theodore and Cortelyou both moved to catch him, the Vice President half-wishing he could go after the fleeing assassin himself. The room erupted into a chaos of screams as people began to stampede, desperate to either punish the man responsible or vacate the building.

"My wife..." William McKinley gasped. "Be careful, Cortelyou, how you tell her. Oh, be careful."

The secretary nodded, close to tears. Then a bloodied hand clutched Roosevelt's jacket, pulling him close to the dying man's lips. _"_ _Find Alfred."_

Roosevelt swallowed dryly, and kept his voice steady only through long years of practice in emergency situations. "I will."

The President's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he slumped completely into unconsciousness-whether it be from blood loss or death warming over, no one could say for sure.

* * *

America gasped at the sudden pain in his heart, dropping to his knees and clutching his chest as he was overcome with an unbearable mixture of incredible sadness and terrible outrage. He knew this pain, this feeling. He'd felt it before.

 _"_ _God-fucking-damn it-WHY?!"_

With no one to bear witness or offer comfort on the wide, empty prairie, America mourned the premature death of his president.

* * *

The inauguration held a solemnity that such an occasion should never have held. Few were in attendance, and there were no pictures. Roosevelt wore borrowed mourning attire for the proceedings, and spoke without embellishment. It was almost grim, with the subdued and dismayed reactions he was met with.

When he returned to the White House, he was surprised to find William McKinley's personal effects already removed, and replaced with his own. The staff's efficiency was truly remarkable, at times.

"Too much, too fast," Roosevelt muttered, trying and failing to feel comfortable at the large desk that had belonged to another only that morning. _'_ _I wanted the presidency, and I wanted to fix this country. But this isn't how it should have happened. No one should have died.'_

But the world wasn't too keen on making things fair, was it?

The newly minted president's eyes eventually travelled up to George Cortelyou, who was standing respectfully to the side. "How is Ida?"

The secretary's mouth pulled back into a slight grimace. "She is…very upset. She's withdrawn into her home, and hasn't smiled since she last visited him."

"It's a shame," Roosevelt sighed. "So kind, but terribly frail. I hope her sister can help her more than we could." He stood up again, crossing over to the window. "I want the Secretary of Justice and several newspaper representatives here as soon as you can summon them."

Cortelyou blinked at the rapid change in subject, and the sudden fire in the new President's eyes. "O-of course, sir. Might I ask why?"

"I'm going to respect William Mckinley's last wish," Theodore Roosevelt answered with firm determination and unwavering conviction. "We're going to bring Alfred F. Jones back to the White House."

* * *

 **Aaaaaand another stupidly short chapter. I've been writing the entire story on one document to separate later, and never realized how short each section actually was. I'll try to remedy that in the future.**

 **HISTORICAL NOTES-**

 **That's not exactly how William McKinley's assassination went. But I couldn't find a way to work the story around the actual proceedings. I'm happy to report that the crowd got together and beat the assassin's** ** _ass_** **.**

 **Roosevelt's first inauguration DID happen on the very day that McKinley finally succumbed to gangrene** **, due to how politically charged and tragic the circumstances were. He did not swear on a bible.**

 **Ida Saxton McKinley, William McKinley's sickly and epileptic wife, lost the will to live shortly after her husband's untimely death. She became a recluse, and died but six years later.**

 **SO...thank you guys for the wonderful reception this new story has gotten already. Hopefully I'll live up to your hopes and expectations!**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	3. Chapter 3

The British Empire frowned at the bold text stamped across the newspaper's front page.

 ** _$3,000 REWARD FOR CAPTURE OF ALFRED F. JONES_**

He set the paper down with a snort. "The Yank went and did something stupid, unsurprisingly."

France swirled his wine, his smile turning into something that could be interpreted as mocking, lecherous, or purely curious. "Is that an American newspaper I spy?"

England quickly covered the _New York Herald's_ incriminating title with a morning edition of the _Times_. "I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you."

"Of course not," the French Nation said with either acquiescence or sarcasm.

England's frown became a scowl. Christ, talking to his neighbor from across the Channel was like talking to a _woman_. Everything was an innuendo, and each conversation was accompanied by three others made up of body language and what was being left deliberately unsaid.

France reached over and casually plucked the _Herald_ from the pile of morning papers sitting on the table. He read aloud, _"'_ _Recently inaugurated President Roosevelt calls for every police department, sheriff, U.S. Marshal and bounty hunter to be on the lookout for Alfred F. Jones. Blue eyes, dark blond hair, glasses, about eighteen years of age. Bring him alive directly to the White House or send a wire with his location to be handsomely rewarded…'"_ France trailed off thoughtfully. "It seems as though he's fallen completely from the map."

"Why are we still discussing this?" England wondered aloud.

 _"_ _Again."_

The green-eyed Nation leaned back on his ornate settee, the very picture of an uncaring noble gentleman. "So his own government can't keep track of him. The subject is entirely inconsequential."

France folded the paper and set it aside. "I only thought that…" Then he considered it, and sighed. "Never mind."

England frowned suspiciously. He didn't like things being kept from him. "What is it?" he snapped.

"Oh, but _mon ami_ , you just said that-"

 _"_ _Tell me."_

The French Nation actually flinched at his tone, weighted with the suffocating pressure of a Nation that was realistically much more powerful than he. Still, France hesitated for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. "I last spoke to him just over thirty years ago. He was not…well."

The Empire's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. He did not know this. He did not like not knowing things, even if the subject was displeasing. "America was sick?"

"Not exactly," France answered. "He was only…distant. Restless. He didn't seem all _there_."

England didn't speak for a long, quiet moment. _'_ _Not all there…And now he's run away from his own government without a clear reason.'_ He shook his head. _'_ _I don't care,'_ he firmly reminded himself. _'_ _I'm not supposed to care. Not about him._ ' "If that is all you are worried about, then it is not worth my attention," he informed tersely. "This conversation is over."

France shrugged, his elegantly nonchalant attitude immediately resumed as he stood and gathered his coat and hat. "Whatever you say, _Anglettere_. Though I might as well add that I stopped receiving his letters seven years ago."

* * *

"Hey Al, you're in the paper!"

The young blond's head poked out past the busy storeroom's inner doorway. "Whassat?"

The smuggling ring leader, known only as Jim, slapped his newspaper for emphasis. "You. The paper. A giant-ass bounty on your head from the president, himself." He leaned forward intently. "So…what'd ya do?"

Alfred shrugged, and disappeared back into the dusty backroom.

"You kill a man?" Jim called callously. "One o' them senator types, maybe?"

A beat of silence. "Naw, I ain't like that!"

Jim frowned at the slight hesitation in his lackey's voice. Al had always been kind of…odd. Oh, he was smart and industrious, and charming to boot. But sometimes…

Mutterings in the dark. Mood swings, twitches, and occasional arguments with people that _weren't there_.

"I can't have killers in my organization," Jim warned, hand instinctively moving to touch the cool wooden grip of his revolver. "'Specially not high-risk ones."

His other employees were none-too-covertly beginning to listen in. Smuggling? No biggie. Stimulating profitable vices and all that. Even lethal self-defense is necessary, at times. But cold-blooded _murder_ …

Murder was serious business. And everyone knew that Jim didn't tolerate it.

Glass broke from within, like someone had dropped a crate. Alfred emerged fully, and faced his employer with crossed arms and an indignant expression. "I didn't kill anyone."

Was that a glimmer of fear Jim caught behind those glasses? Guilt?

"Three thousand dollars," someone muttered wistfully.

Jim's eyes narrowed. "Then why's the gov'ment want you so bad?"

Tension in the room heightened sharply, and men began to talk amongst themselves. Someone brought out a coil of rope.

"I'm not going back," Alfred declared softly, a disturbing note in his tone that made Jim's hairs stand on end. "You can't make me go back."

Alarm bells began to ring in the smuggler's head, and he made his decision. He used his considerable bulk to block the only exit, heaving a belabored sigh. "You seemed like a good kid, Al."

Blue eyes widened in dismay, and warning. "Don't-"

"Grab him!"

The room exploded into violence as his men surged to detain the apparent murderer in their midst. Alfred twisted, dodged, and bodily shouldered people out of the way as he made for the door.

Jim drew his weapon and pointed it at the advancing teen. "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Alfred wasn't stopping. His expression was frantic, pupils fully dilated as he barreled straight for his former employer. Time slowed, and Jim reacted. He pulled the trigger.

Everyone froze at the ear-shattering _BOOM!_ that sounded within the confined space of the storehouse. No one dared to speak as Alfred abruptly staggered, clutching the area just right of his heart with an expression of intense pain. Blood dripped freely, and the boy dropped to one knee with a hacking cough.

Jim grimaced. He _hated_ watching people die-especially someone so young. And that was a fatal wound if he ever saw one. "You just had to go and mess up, Al. I always knew you weren't right in the head."

The blond teenager surprised them all by struggling to his feet with a pained grunt-an obviously herculean feat for him. He swayed, and removed his hand from his wound. Blood continued to splatter on the ground. The smuggler was both pained and unnerved to hear him chuckle, blood trailing from his mouth as he smiled, "Nice…shot."

Men cleared away from Alfred as though he had the plague. Someone to Jim's left began to mutter a prayer.

Then, the wound stopped bleeding. Blood was already congealing and scabbing over the hole, while the injury itself was beginning to shrink…Alfred lurched forward unsteadily, that disquieting smile still planted on his face.

Jim uttered a panicked oath, and fired off another shot. But Alfred was clearly ready for this one as it hit him in the shoulder and he barely even slowed down.

Jim dropped weapon. He wasn't stupid-he knew when something had proven itself useless. In this case, a mortal weapon against whatever godless _creature_ this was. But now he wasn't sure of what to do, and the fear clouding his brain was making it hard to think.

"I didn't kill anyone," Alfred informed conversationally. "Not since…a long while ago. You should have just believed me."

Both gunshot wounds closed entirely. Jim wondered why his men weren't doing anything.

Alfred's smile twisted into something dangerous, spectacles flashing oddly in the light.

 _'_ _His eyes were blue a second ago, I swear-'_

The blond's tone became flat, his voice utterly alien. "You're in my way."

Jim yelled, felt pain, and then nothing more.

* * *

 **And NOW we get into the problem that very nearly correlates and very much assists with the main conflict that happens to be the main idea of this story. Some of you may recognize it.**

 **Not a very historical chapter, unfortunately. But it _is_ longer, so that's something. Hopefully you guys still found it entertaining to read.**

 **Thanks for the favs, follows, and reviews this story has already gotten. Each one is a gift that is cherished. Tell me what you thought of this, pleeease? I'm not too sure about it...**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	4. Chapter 4

"Of all the things," Theodore Roosevelt chuckled, "a bar fight was your ultimate downfall."

The blond's gaze eventually moved away from the grimy, marked wall of his cell, blue eyes narrowing behind dirty glasses as he regarded the president with obvious suspicion. "What do you want from me?"

Roosevelt spread his hands. "Only for you to allow me to help you."

A derisive snort was the only response to his bold claim. The president willed himself to be patient, and tried for a genial smile. "People are beginning to worry. I've recently received a letter all the way from France formally inquiring as to the circumstances of your disappearance and condition."

When Alfred didn't deign to answer, Roosevelt continued, "It's time for you to rejoin the land of the living, America."

Silence reigned within the dark cell. Roosevelt sighed internally, resorting to the tactic that would get even his most insolent subordinates to listen in times of great distraction. "What say you to that?" he demanded sharply. " _Answer me_ , boy!"

America flinched-the most animated reaction shown thus far. His voice was oddly restrained and angry. "It's not like I have a choice in the matter."

Roosevelt frowned, but maintained his clipped tone. It was getting results while asking nicely _hadn't_. "Explain."

An alarming twitch. "I can't disobey a direct order from the president," America snapped.

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Theodore Roosevelt suddenly _understood_. "McKinley didn't listen to you," he recalled. "But that didn't stop him from ordering you around…"

Only then did the president realize exactly what he was doing. "Oh, dear," he muttered, taking half a step back.

 _'What were the founders_ thinking _when they robbed this boy of his free will?'_

"The Restraint Clause-It was never meant to be anything bad," the blond admitted with a sigh, as though he read Roosevelt's thoughts. "Go get this, tell someone that, sign this… _stop talking_ …"

Roosevelt winced at the Nation's tone. McKinley probably hadn't realized what he was doing-heavens knew whether any of his predecessors ever stopped to consider the implications, either. "So you left," the president guessed, "rather than be forced to serve a man who wouldn't even consider your advice."

Alfred crossed his arms and looked away, apparently done with any sort of voluntary speech.

Theodore Roosevelt found himself reconsidering his plan. _'It wouldn't be right to force him back to the White House. It would only make the problem worse.'_

So he would have to appeal to America's better sensibilities, and pray. "If that is the case," he paused. Choosing his words carefully, "then I will simply offer you this."

Alfred looked up sharply. He was listening.

"It wouldn't be very American of me to make you come with me." Roosevelt stopped and took a deep breath. _'This is a living representation of everything I govern. Act as though I'm talking to the_ people _.'_ "But I can't, in good conscience, leave you without at least trying to fix this mess. So if you should _choose_ to come back with me, and work with me…" _'Carefully, carefully.'_ "I will find that elusive piece of legislation that bound you so unfairly, and amend it. With your input, of course." He clasped his hands behind his back, and waited.

One could see America analyze his offer, dissecting every word. "This could almost be considered blackmail, you know, holding my freedom over my head."

Roosevelt couldn't help chuckling at his wry tone. "I'd more call it a _hard bargain_."

Another, longer moment of silence. "…Alright. I'll play along, for now." Ancient blue eyes seemed to pierce Theodore Roosevelt's very soul. "Don't make me regret it."

* * *

Canada read the letter, and then reread it just to make sure it was real.

 _Matthew Williams,_

 _If you would please send an inquiry to Washington D.C. as to the condition of their representative? Have the response forwarded to my office. Purely for political purposes, of course. Not my idea._

 _-Arthur Kirkland_

 _'_ _Still won't use his name,'_ Canada observed with some chagrin. Then he frowned. Why would England-or anyone in his government for that matter, want word on America's condition after so many years?

He set the strange request aside, and looked to Kumajirou, who was dozing on the empty chair on the other side of his desk. "Does this situation strike you as odd, or is it just me?"

The polar bear's black eyes blinked open. He blearily regarded his owner for a long moment, before huffing and wordlessly going back to his nap.

Canada sighed. "Right." He dug into one of his desk drawers, bringing out a fresh sheet of parchment. Odd or not, it wouldn't do to disobey. Even if he viewed it as a pointless exercise. He'd tried to reach his brother before, both through his government and his known personal address. He'd never gotten a reply.

Which is why he'd stopped trying almost twenty years ago. The northern Nation figured the gap between him and his brother was too great-their relationship damaged beyond repair.

Matthew exhaled a slow breath, staring blankly at the starch-colored parchment he'd prepared.

America likely wouldn't read it, much less bother to answer. He'd bet money on that. Which meant he would have to address this inquiry to the only other person that might know of his brother's whereabouts, and hope that he wasn't as stark an isolationist as his predecessors.

He took up his pen, and began to write.

 _Mister President Roosevelt…_

* * *

 _'This,'_ Roosevelt decided, _'is the most uncomfortable train ride that I've ever taken.'_

Him, America, and two burly Secret Service agents crowded into one compartment, and none of them terribly inclined to speak. The tension was positively stifling.

"Have you ever been to Africa, la-er, Alfred?"

"No. I've only been away from my borders once."

"Oh, really? Where did you go?"

"France."

"Ah, France. I hear it's quite a beautiful country."

"Sure."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"No."

And that was where it ended. America hadn't even looked away from the window. The conversation was over almost as soon as it began. Roosevelt scowled inwardly. If this were any other insolent teenage boy, he'd be on the case with a soldierly reprimand and smack upside the head. But this _wasn't_ any other insolent teenage boy, so he had to be _careful_ so that his advisor might someday accept his role. A curse on special circumstance and diplomacy!

It was getting to be too hot, in here. "I need air," the president declared, standing up. When his security detail moved to get up as well, he waved them down. "Alone."

"But sir, we-" One agent cut himself off dubiously, duty and prudence warring for control.

America's head snapped up, suddenly alert. "What's happening?"

"I'll be back in a short moment," Roosevelt assured, wondering at the faint light of apprehension in the Nation's gaze.

"Oh…alright, then." America slowly settled back into an inattentive state. The three humans present felt compelled to stare before returning to the matter at hand.

"Keep an eye on him," the president ordered. "I won't be far."

* * *

"Change the connection."

The attendant shivered at the cool metal pressed against his neck. He swallowed dryly. "But-"

Three clicks, each one each one spelling his potential doom. _"_ _Now."_

"A-alright!" The man's knees were like jelly as he went over to the lever that would redirect the coming train, drawing out the key that would release the safety. Despite everything, he hesitated. "That…a lot of people will die, you know."

A chilling laugh. "That's all collateral damage. I am truly only after one. Do you wish to _join_ them?"

The attendant let out a very unmanly whimper. He fumbled with the key and safety lock before quickly jerking the lever back.

Almost immediately after he did that, the _California Limited_ careened past the little train station and onto its altered course.

"There's a good man," the faceless criminal praised. There was no time for guilt or self-loathing. The attendant heard a bang, felt pain, and then nothing.

* * *

Alfred snapped awake again, surprising the Secret Service agents sitting across from him. "Something's wrong."

The two humans exchanged an uneasy glance. "What makes you say that?" one of them asked dubiously.

 _'_ _They're not going to listen to me,'_ the Nation chastised himself. _'_ _No one ever does.'_ He jumped to his feet and tried the compartment door. It was locked. America settled a tired glare on the agents. "Really, now?"

"We were ordered to watch you until the president returns," one explained. "So we locked the door."

"But something. Is. _Wrong_ ," America insisted, aware his voice was steadily approaching a menacing growl but not caring in the slightest. The last time he felt this way-

The other agent shrugged. "I'm sure it's fine."

America felt a sudden and inexplicably intense anger. "Useless!" He turned and punched straight through the wood paneling, destroying the key lock in the process.

"H-Hey!"

The blond paid no heed as he careened down the car's narrow passage with a speed only he was capable of. _'_ _Something's wrong, something's wrong, I don't know what, I don't know what to do-'_

A furiously hushed conversation just ahead between two porters. They looked afraid. Alfred screeched to a stop, listening intently.

"Have the brakemen stop the train, then! Quickly-inform everybody!"

"I was just talking to the conductor. The brakes have been cut…"

America pushed past them. _'_ _I have to stop this train.'_

Bursting through the door and leaping across to the next car, an infinitely more terrifying thought occurred to him.

 _'_ _Or my president will die.'_

* * *

"Sir!"

Roosevelt turned away from one of the lounge car windows to see one of his security detail, looking flushed and out of breath. "Yes, lad, what is it?"

"Mister Jones is gone!"

"Gone?" the president echoed, immediately fearing the worst. Had America tired of their compromise so quickly? "How? Why? And where did he go?"

"W-Well…"

"Answer me!" Roosevelt snapped, knowing that time could be of the essence, here.

"He said that something was _wrong_ and just…escaped."

Roosevelt felt himself scowl. "I never said he was a _captive_ , agent. Which way did he go?"

"Towards the engine."

Theodore Roosevelt was already moving, leaving the agent to trail along helplessly behind him.

* * *

"Passengers aren't allowed here," the mountain of an engineer informed, his shaking voice betraying his neutral façade.

Alfred bodily shouldered the man out of the way-perhaps a little too roughly, as the huge employee actually staggered back.

The Nation knew that this wasn't the human's fault, so he really had no right to be so rough. Protocol was easy to fall back on when there was nothing you could do. But now was _not_ the time for patience or diplomacy.

Taking a deep breath, he crumpled the steel maintenance hatch in his hands as he tore it from its hinges. The engineer let out a soft _eep_ , a metallic thump indicating that he'd fainted.

America ducked through the opening, coming out at the very front of the engine, just above the cattle guard. There he saw the problem.

The track didn't end. It was broken, and being repaired. He could see the small cluster of laborers' white canvas tents a ways from the laid track, and the stack of long rails that would replace old cracked ones.

 _'_ _Stop the train, stop the train, how do I stop this train?'_

The tents were getting closer. He didn't have much time, or many options.

 _'_ _Time to see if a several ton moving locomotive falls within my parameters.'_

* * *

Roosevelt charged into the main engine and grabbed a harried engineer by the collar. "Where is he?"

The large man, clutching his head for some reason, indicated a ripped-open metal hatch. The president stood, ordering the agent ( _agents_ , now, as the second one had finally joined them) sharply, "See to him!"

Roosevelt fixed his spectacles as he stepped out into rushing wind and smoke. "America!"

The blond Nation was there on the small platform, peering over the edge. Roosevelt couldn't help but notice the missing cattle guard.

"What are you doing?!" the president demanded over howling wind.

"Brakes gone; stopping train!" America answered shortly. He crouched, blue eyes determined.

"You can't-"

Powerful legs propelled the Nation far ahead of the train, and turned to face it head-on. Roosevelt looked on in confused horror. How was committing _suicide_ going to stop the-

America loosed a determined yell that resonated with Roosevelt's very soul, slamming his hands into the train's steel front. Metal crunched in his grip, and the entire train shuddered with a terrible screeching sound. His heels dug deep into the ground, breaking rail ties as he was pushed backwards.

Roosevelt felt the speeding locomotive begin to slow down.

 _'_ _This is impossible. I'm witnessing a miracle.'_

The train crawled to a stop, mere feet away from an obviously split old rail that would've derailed the entire machine.

America slumped, utterly exhausted. "Knew…something… _wrong_."

"You saved my life," Roosevelt breathed, "and the lives of everyone else on the train. By stopping it with your _bare hands_."

America crawled painfully back onto the train engine. Then he just laid there on his stomach, allowing his cheek to rest on the heated black steel with a wheezing sigh. Then Roosevelt saw the price he'd paid for his actions. From the back of his knees to his heels was a bloody mess of bruises, gashes, and exposed bone.

"I'll send for medical supplies," the president decided, making to stand up. "You've lost so much blood, not to mention the probability of infection-"

"…No need," America managed. "This happens a lot…I'll be fine in a bit."

"Nonsense," Roosevelt retorted. "Cortelyou never mentioned anything like that." _'_ _But he didn't mention how_ strong _the lad was, either…'_

"Jefferson wrote about it," the Nation said faintly, dozing off. "Still in the library…somewhere." Then he fell unconscious. Roosevelt had to fight the urge to gag at the set of rapid snaps, followed by disgusting squishing sounds as bone and muscle tissue began to mend as though by magic.

"I'll have to look into that," Roosevelt decided aloud, knowing full well that America would not hear. "So that you don't surprise me like this, anymore."

 _'_ _And so that I can know what you're truly capable of.'_

* * *

 **Because no early twentieth century story is complete without a near train wreck. Not a whole lot of history in this chapter, but eh. Nothin' much I could do about that. There'll be more unsolicited history lessons coming soon, though, so don't you worry about that. Hope you guys enjoyed it anyways!**

 **THANK YOU for all the favs, follows, and reviews everyone! They're greatly appreciated, and I would love to hear what you guys thought of this chapter, or are thinking of this story so far!**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred's return to the White House had been understated, and happened in the dead of night. His assimilation in the following weeks had been equally painless-if only because he almost never showed up for longer than ten minutes at a time.

In fact, Roosevelt hadn't seen the lad very much at _all_. He suspected that it was for fear of getting a direct order.

 _'_ _Of course, America would be averse to authority,'_ the President reflected. _'_ _We were practically built on the idea. But nothing can get done if he keeps running scared!'_

So here he was. America had mentioned Thomas Jefferson writing about him, and that the writings were in the White House's library, somewhere. They might have the insight he needed to reach the boy. However he was having trouble finding the damned things in the sizeable collection the White House boasted.

 _'_ _If people have managed to overlook it for over a century, then it must be in the most unlikely spot,'_ he told himself, climbing up onto a step stool for what felt like the hundredth time.

Then he saw it. A worn green folder, tucked between two molding books whose titles had worn away long ago. Roosevelt bit back a sigh. _'_ _Or I am simply the first one looking for them since they were initially written.'_

The president very carefully pulled the innocuous collection from the shelf, taking it to a nearby reading chair for him to study. He handled the yellowing and brittle parchment with reverence. _'_ _I'm going to have this transcribed, and preserved in the Library of Congress. National artifacts such as this should not be left to deteriorate!'_

He settled himself in his seat, and began to read.

 _In the light of my country finally revealing himself (very dramatically, I might add), I have resolved to take it upon myself to observe, study, and solve the enigma that is Alfred F. Jones's state of being._

 _Perhaps it is my way of coping with an unlikely reality. I cannot be certain. God forbid Alfred-or_ America _, rather, find out about this. He's terribly private about the whole thing, despite what his boisterously loud personality would have one believe._

 _The first things to note, of course are his strength and rate of healing. I've yet to personally see him with a truly mortal wound, though I suspect that it would have much the same effect as him stabbing himself in the shoulder did-ruined clothing, and entirely unbroken skin. As for his physical prowess, I do believe he would give Hercules himself pause were they to ever meet in contest._

 _I cannot help but wonder if this is the same for other 'Nations', as Alfred referred to his kind. And a darker part of me wonders whether these traits could be utilized on the battlefield. Practically, Alfred might be trained to turn the tide of battle in our, and consequently his, favor. Ethically, however…he appears no more than fifteen, physically. Such an idea might as well be a moral taboo with how sick to the stomach my own idea makes me feel._

There, the first passage cut off. Roosevelt replaced the sheet in the folder, closing it thoughtfully. The America depicted here was young, open, and possessing a certain positivity in character that was…absent, anymore. Nowadays he was sullen, distrustful, and perhaps even a little grim in his determination. It was hard to believe that one error in forethought on the part of the founders could lead to such a mess.

 _'_ _Unless the Restraint Clause isn't the only thing wrong, here.'_

Now that he considered it, such a thing would make sense. It'd explain Alfred's as of yet unexplainable behaviors, as well.

 _'_ _If only I can get this fool of an immortal being to confide in his president!'_

* * *

 **Alright, so an extremely short chapter, because I was reading the previous chapter only to discover to my ultimate dismay that it was missing an entire freakin' section. I blame Fanfiction's finicky editing features. So GO BACK AND READ THAT RIGHT NOW TO AVOID CONFUSION.**

 **Aaaaanywho, thanks for the favs, follows, and reviews! I promise I'm working on that ATLAxHetalia crossover chapter right now. I was just seriously upset to find something wrong with my story.**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	6. Chapter 6

The Presidency thus far wasn't proving to be the unstoppable engine for positive influence that Theodore Roosevelt had wanted it to be. He'd thought it was simply McKinley's faith in his party and loyalty his patrons, but no. That wasn't the case at all.

The Congress was in such a dominating position over the Executive Branch that Roosevelt _had_ to tread carefully with his initial decisions to stay in favor with the Republicans. The Supreme Court was too wrapped up in property rights to be of use to anyone, right now.

But he was not here to meekly bow to the whims of Senator Hanna and his barons. He was here to govern.

To do so he was going to have to do something McKinley wouldn't have _dared_ to do. He was going to reestablish his branch as an equal to the other two, and be the president his country needed.

Sticking his head past the door of his office one day, he loudly directed, "Someone get me Alfred!"

He very much disliked shouting. But it was by far the most effective way to get things done when time was of the essence.

In a matter of minutes, the western Nation was standing in his office with a carefully balanced stance that did nothing to belie his awkward expression. He was still not used to being here. "You wished to see me?" Belatedly he added, "Sir?"

"I was hoping you could take a look at this," Roosevelt said, holding out the list he spent two days compiling.

America took it hesitantly, scanning the names and titles next to them. "…William D. Crum as collector for the port in Charleston?"

"Yes." The president caught the slightest note of displeasure in his voice, and latched onto it like a hunting hound on a scent. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Ye-…no…I mean-…" America set the list down on the desk, and rubbed his temples. "My head hurts."

"He's perfectly eligible," Roosevelt pressed. "A decent man-his ancestry should have no bearing on it."

America's gaze snapped up to meet his. "You did this on purpose."

"I cannot treat mere color as a permanent bar to holding office," Roosevelt intoned patiently, "any more than I could so treat creed or birthplace."

"I-I know," the blond managed, voice wavering suddenly. "I know, and it shouldn't…shouldn't _be_ like this. But I can already feel Dixie seething. You're going to lose a lot of southern supporters over this." He shook slightly, showing a weakness that Roosevelt had neither expected nor wished to ever see. "Just like before-" he choked out.

"Lad…" Just as he said this, Roosevelt recalled that this _wasn't_ a lad. That this was a being older than even the pilgrims, and had lived through everything this country experienced.

 _Like the Civil War._

"I don't want my children to hurt each other, anymore," blue irises were dark, and haunted. "I feel their pain, and hear screaming at night. It's like my mind is being split in three."

Roosevelt sensed that America wasn't really speaking to him, anymore. In fact, he didn't even seem aware of his surroundings as awful memories replayed behind his eyelids. Then the Nation began to hyperventilate.

Theodore Roosevelt cursed himself for his insensitivity, quickly helping America into a chair before he could collapse, or hurt himself. He took the blond's trembling hands, rubbing them in the same way his own father had when he was a small child plagued with terrible asthma.

"You're alright, m'boy. It's in the past. Do you understand? Things will never escalate like that _ever again_." Roosevelt continued muttering assurances, unsure of whether they were even doing any good. All he knew was that he wanted this to stop.

America suddenly gripped his shoulders, face pale and frantic. "It hurts, Mister Lincoln. It hurts so much."

"Alfred," the president began firmly. "Lincoln is gone. The war is _long_ over."

The Nation stared into his face, unnervingly still. Then he blinked, recognition flashing across his eyes. He breathed, and slowly released his iron grip. "Sorry. That was just-…uh…sorry. Usually doesn't happen." Right now, as he was struggling to pull himself together again, America was about as close to a bashful and unsure teenager as he ever had been.

 _'_ _But it shouldn't be this way. This shouldn't be what brings your walls down!'_

It was as though his very soul was crying out against the injustice of it all. Instead of making this known, however, Roosevelt only sighed and stepped away to offer some space. ""You've seen more than even the most seasoned soldiers. No one could reasonably expect you to go through it all and come out unscathed. Stronger, perhaps, but not desensitized."

America said nothing.

Roosevelt cast a glance to the list of prospective government officials. "I had no idea the people were still so…"

 _Divided._

But he didn't say this, either. He didn't know what the effect would be on the still clearly fragile Nation, and wasn't keen to find out.

Finally, America spoke. His voice was quit, but held determination. "I think Crum would be good in that office."

Roosevelt felt his eyebrows climb up his forehead. "Do you, now?"

"I do. "America nearly smiled. "It's good that you're doing this."

"It's far from the social reform that you clearly need," Roosevelt reiterated, however with a slight smile of his own. "But it is a step in the right direction. It is my hope that someday, with work, we can _all_ agree on that much."

* * *

 **Oh the angst! Oh, the delicious, soul-devouring angst that I'm putting them all through!**

 **HISTORY TIIIIIIME!**

 **Most of you are at least somewhat familiar with the Civil War, I'm assuming. They're plenty of fics about it depicting how traumatizing it all was for poor Alfred. SO, he's probably not over it. Might not ever get completely over it. So when Roosevelt began taking counsel with and appointing people REGARDLESS of their color, creed, etcetera (*cough cough*, Booker T. Washington), many Southern Republicans (you know, Jim Crow-type people) were Not Happy. They were also very vocal in their opinions. America would have felt this.**

 **(It's rather interesting to see how Roosevelt would later contradict himself with that scandal concerning the black soldiers of the Twenty-Fifth Infantry posted near Fort Brown, but that is beside the point.)**

 **AAAAAAAAAnnnnnywho, thank you all for the favs, follows, and reviews as always. Don't be afraid to tell me how I'm doing because that's all part of the fun.**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	7. Chapter 7

The next days were hectic for Theodore Roosevelt. He had little enough time to spare with wife, much less Alfred. Where he felt he was going to slow, Conservatives felt he was pushing things much too quickly. Hence they fought him with every move he made in the public and accusatory way possible.

With things as they were, and how exhausted he was, Roosevelt felt justified to decide that he _shouldn't have been dealing with this, right now_.

"What is the meaning of this?!" he fairly roared, struggling to be heard over the shrieking maid.

Cortelyou could be seen huffing and puffing towards them, suit rumpled in his hurry. "Am I too late?" he wheezed, stopping to catch his breath.

"Too late for _what_?" Roosevelt reared on his secretary. "What in _God's name_ were you unable to prevent that sent this woman into such hysterics?"

The equally overworked secretary, in answer, pushed past the twittering female, threw the pantry door open, and dragged a familiar bespectacled blond out by the collar. _"_ _Ask him."_

Roosevelt blinked, not entirely expecting that. Then he saw the carrots and cabbage heaped in the Nation's arms. "What are you doing?"

"There was a rabbit in the garden," America explained with careful neutrality. "It's had babies, and I'm going to feed them." He sounded prepared to argue, if necessary.

 _'_ _Curiouser and curiouser.'_

The president felt his irritation subsiding, giving way to amusement. "Did the prospect of rabbits truly scare this poor woman so terribly?"

"No…" He almost sounded sheepish, and apologetic. "I just know she hates when I take food, so I kinda… _toldhertherewasagiantratinthepantry_.

Roosevelt managed to discern his rushed confession, but was unable to quite stifle his snicker. Cortelyou only looked on in disapproval. "I told you to let the gardener deal with the rabbits."

"He would'a done something _mean_ ," Alfred resisted petulantly, stressing the last word like a child might. "He doesn't like them."

Roosevelt laughed outright, clapping his secretary on the back. "There's no law against preserving nature, Georgie. Let's leave the lad be."

Cortelyou pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, sir. There's someone in your office, by the way, when you're done here. Called himself Perkins."

Message delivered, he washed his hands of the matter, took a deep breath, and left them to their own devices.

America's mask was firmly in place again, however ridiculous this forced dignity looked with his armloads of self-proclaimed rabbit food. "Was there anything else, sir?"

"For now, no," Roosevelt assured. "You should probably go see to those rabbits, lad."

The blond nodded, inching his way past the president as he made his escape. Roosevelt heard his relieved sigh as he turned the corner, and chuckled. So underneath all that caution and habitual isolation, was indeed the young Nation from Thomas Jefferson's writings.

It was heartening to finally see.

* * *

"My secretary tells me that your name is Perkins," Roosevelt greeted as he entered his office. "Do you not have a first name?"

"George," the man offered promptly. "However I'm here on behalf of someone else."

The president paused, appraising his guest anew. He took in the expensive clothes and thick gold watch chain that even had a small medallion on it. Tendencies of the wealthy or well-to-do. "And who is this unnamed benefactor of yours, might I ask? Furthermore, why is _he_ not here, instead?"

"Mister Morgan is a busy man," George answered. "He has important things to do."

"More important than visiting the White House and seeking a meeting with the President of the United States," Roosevelt finished flatly, and a trite coolly. "My, my, it must be life or death."

Perhaps catching his offended tone, Perkins switched tracks. "We are here to inquire as to your…intended direction, for the Presidency."

"I've made countless statements as to that subject," Roosevelt reminded. "Perhaps you should refer to those. As _I_ have important things to do as well."

"We have," the businessman said. "However the South is nearly up in arms over your recent appointments to certain public offices. McKinley would not have found this prudent to do."

Roosevelt clasped his hands behind his back stiffly. "I cannot pretend to know who McKinley would have appointed. I can only do the job as best I can and hope that things go well."

"Many believe that things will not go well at this rate," Perkins warned. "The scandal alone will hurt the party-"

"I have _helped_ the party," Roosevelt interjected harshly, "by cleaning out much of the rampant corruption that infected it so thoroughly. I shall not be one hairs breadth milder in my message or my methods."

Perkins fell silent, leaning back slightly in surprise at how quickly the president's patience had worn. Then he pulled his last card.

"Mister Morgan will not be pleased when I relay your intentions."

"J.P. Morgan Chase," Roosevelt began lowly, "is a businessman. His opinion matters even less to me than that of the common man. His empire only exists because America _allows_ it to."

George Perkins gulped audibly.

"Morgan would be wise to remember his place," Roosevelt continued, "lest I feel the need to remind him of the difference between his thinly disguised monopoly of a company, and the government that he is subject to."

* * *

 **A break from all the angst this story has. I felt it needed bunnies. So there, cute fluffy bunnies.**

 **HISTORY STUFF:**

 **George W. Perkins was a prominent partner to Morgan & Company. I wrote him to reflect that, along with his quoted warning to Roosevelt: ****_"…_** ** _to do nothing at all, and say nothing except platitudes_** **." Further research revealed him to have later been one of the men to later help Roosevelt form his Progressive Party, though, so I suppose they made up at some point. (Though there was a certain failure with an anti-trust plank that is suspected to have been largely Perkins's fault, so maybe not…)**

 **Aaaaaaanywho, thank you all for the favs, follows, and reviews! It's nice to see people taking an interest in my humble offerings.**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	8. Chapter 8

_A bored Alfred is a menace to Society._

 _What is it about being three centuries old that leads to such sheer_ childishness _? I told him to stop bothering me while I wrote, to go occupy himself. Then he promptly lodged himself in my chimney, covered in God-knows-what under the soot and clutching a live chicken tightly to his chest. I didn't even ask. I don't want to know. I just want him out of my house._

 _Unconditional love stemming from patriotism can only go so far._

 _As such, I am now teaching him the violin. He mentioned having known the basics from his mentor, who demanded a general education in such things as writing, mathematics, Latin, classical thought, and musical theory._

 _With someone such as Alfred, it is not hard to figure out why he left. Even if they were not Avatars acting out the whims of their people, I would have not have been surprised if Alfred had eventually left of his own accord. He strains against the yoke of authority so fiercely!_

 _I almost fear what he will do when we replace the British Empire's leadership with our own._

And that was where the passage ended. Remembering the rabbit incident that had happened only yesterday, Theodore Roosevelt dearly wished to know what ran through America's head when he did something like this. It was apparently a common occurrence, under normal circumstances.

 _'_ _And he's doing it again. He's becoming comfortable.'_

A heartwarming thought, though not _entirely_ true. Alfred still tended towards scarcity, and still would not open up. The all-too-recalcitrant Nation will have made no significant progress by the end of the term, at this rate. They needed to speed the process.

He set the fragile old parchment back into its folder, making to move it aside to a less obstructing part of his desk. However the hour was late, and he was very tired. His movements were sluggish, and as such he ended up with assorted papers scattered on the floor due to a careless action.

"Bully," Roosevelt grumbled under his breath as he stooped down to gather them. "Marvelously bully."

Thrusting crumpled stacks back up onto his desk without a care to the order they'd previously been in, his fatigue-clouded eyes caught something odd.

An envelope, with a faint watermark that indicated someone's personal stationary, however with stamps that said foreign and official.

 _Matthew Williams._

 _Ontario, Canada_

He scooped it up, other papers forgotten in his curiosity, and sliced it open with his preferred silver letter-opener. It contained three folded letters, each with a different name on them.

First was his.

 _President Theodore Roosevelt_

Then one rather oddly addressed and in a gilded font that didn't match the rest of the stationary.

 _Mister United States of America_

And a third, poignant in its simplicity.

 _Alfred_

Not one to read another's mail, he only read the one addressed to himself. He read it several times, as it enlightened him to several very, _very_ important things that he wished he'd known immediately after taking office. What was worse, was that it was dated at about the time he'd actually _found_ America sulking in a California jail. It'd been here, on his desk, the whole time. It had probably been under something.

Cursing the unenviable clutter of bureaucracy and politics, as well as whichever servant had put this _vital_ correspondence somewhere it might be overlooked, he slid the two other letters back into the envelope, and placed it right atop his desk. It would be his first order of business in the morning.

He'd found his catalyst.

* * *

 **SO SORRY FOR THE LENGTH! I just churned this out real quick because I was kinda having a panic attack (emotions and I do not get along at all). Writing tends to help. And tea. So here you go. A product of treacherous nerves and leaf-juice.**

 **No history tidbits for this chapter, I'm afraid.**

 **THANK YOU for all the favs, follows, and reviews, mon copains. They're awesome. I'd love to hear what you thought of this little quickie!**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	9. Chapter 9

As it turned out, he _didn'_ t get the opportunity to call Alfred to his office the next morning. His secretary had been kind enough to fill his itinerary beforehand with unavoidable obligations, the bastard. What was worse was that no one had seen the semi-immortal all day, aside from an intern who'd reported Alfred's disappearing into town.

Roosevelt couldn't help but be preoccupied, even as the special interest group representative sitting across from him yammered away about resources or some-such important issue that he couldn't bring himself to care about at the moment.

It wasn't as though Alfred was confined solely to the White House, but couldn't he have left a note? Or something to reassure the president that he hadn't given up when they were _so close_ to an epiphany?

He tried to reassure himself that it was fine, but America had disappeared from the White House before, and didn't have a nearly as consistent track record of returning. As such, he dispatched people out into town to find Alfred.

He'd done all he could do from here. The only thing left was to wait, and do his job.

* * *

 _'_ _Maybe I should've left a note.'_

When he'd left that morning, the only thing on his mind was that bar with the really good sandwiches just outside of town that one of the couriers had told him about. He'd been banned completely from the kitchen, and was desperate for a meal that wasn't one of the White House chef's ideas of 'fine dining'.

But it was too late now. Roosevelt had already overreacted. Two men that America recognized as Secret Service agents in plainclothes had entered the little bar.

Dropping a quarter on the bar, which was snatched up remarkably quick by the barkeep, America wrapped up the remaining half of his _so-amazingly-delicious-sandwich-ohmyGod_. He made to stand up and surrender himself peacefully…

…and then he had an idea.

 _'_ _Let's see if these guys are all they're cracked up to be.'_

The place was dimly lit, as most bars and saloons tended to be. America took advantage of this, tilting his wide western hat brim low and heading towards the exit.

On a whim, he checked one of the agent's shoulders on his way out the door.

The agent grunted in surprise, winded. Perhaps it was a bit too enthusiastic of a strike to be undeserving of offense. "Hey, watch yourself ya damn uppity Hobbadehoy!"

 _'_ _Wow, haven't heard that one in a while.'_

America spun, lifting his hat and offering full view of his face and the cheekiest wink he could give before dashing off.

"Hey!"

The chase was on.

* * *

 _'_ _This job has too much waiting,'_ Roosevelt decided. Neither hide nor hair of Alfred F. Jones. His men had told him as much. Afternoon was giving way to evening, already, and nothing has abated his apprehension. He didn't know all of what was happening, and didn't like it one bit.

He wondered what had convinced Alfred to leave so suddenly, and whether he intended to come back.

 _'_ _We were so close.'_

America was just beginning to open up again. Finally taking an interest-even if only for his freedom. Was he going to throw it all away, now?

Helplessly, he turned to Thomas Jefferson's writings once again. As though they would somehow offer a reason for Alfred to leave so abruptly. He didn't have much else to go on. He picked out a random sheaf of paper covered in a strangely shaky scrawl, and began to read.

 _My hand is unsteady as I relate this account. But it must be done, while the events are still fresh in my mind. This stark reminder must stand the test of time, and senility, so that if there ever comes a point where I cannot recount it properly, the tale will remain._

 _There is a wooded path that I frequent when neither my violin nor my writings serve as proper distractions from my idle moments. However cluttered with abundant, noisy human life it is by day, by night it is quite serene._

 _Alfred offered to accompany me. I thought the night air would do him good, as he seemed anxious for some unknown reason. I'd assumed it was civil unrest. Even with the British gone, there is much discord among the states. The Articles are not living up to their purpose, and there are still true Loyalists among us whose philosophies confuse the lad on occasion. Or throw him into a brief but terrible melancholy._

 _So we set out. Alfred's eyes had lingered long on his musket, but ultimately left it leaning against the mantel._

 _I wish I'd recognized these signs as the premonitions they were._

 _The path is long and meandering, well-trodden by beast and citizen alike and so easy to navigate even by moonlight. However tonight was overcast and muggy. Neither of us minded that it was darker than normal, so that was not enough to deter us. We became engrossed in a conversation that I no longer remember for the shock of what happened next._

 _Calamity is oft something that a person believes is what happens to_ _other_ _people. None of us want to think of it happening to us, and few of us ever accept it as anything more than a theoretical scenario. Even with the population only just being rid of war, there was a mere third truly involved. 'Twas not the most devastating Revolution to come to pass in the history of Mankind, if one were to be completely honest. Perhaps I was buoyed by a sense of trouble being gone forever, now that I am no longer a traitor to my country with the sobering threat of a noose around my neck._

 _Whatever the reason be, I was not expecting to be set upon by highwaymen._

 _There were three, I believe. The exact details escape me as my mind was overridden by animal instinct. Wicked knives gleamed. For a moment, I was afraid for my life._

 _And in that moment, Alfred…exploded. He immediately made for the one nearest my person, devastating strength being displayed in its most brute form as each one went down in a mass of twisted limbs, bruises, and blood._

 _It was over in seconds. Alfred had caught a bloody knife in his chest at some point, and it was still stuck in his bicep as he turned to me with the weighted gaze of something_ ancient _and asked, "Are you alright?" with blood spilling past his lips. He didn't even seem to notice._

 _It is as though a cloth had been lifted from my eyes. No longer can I see Alfred, the optimistic teenage boy that ran errands for the delegates he adored and fought for the people and philosophy he loved. Anymore I can only see America. A being that gains its humanity only by the virtue of those the avatar represents, and yet could never quite understand the mortality and fear of God that dictates the rest of us. In short, he is alien. He is strong and he is volatile. I'd even go so far as to call him intimidating. In the grips of intense emotion, he is dangerous._

 _This entity must be controlled more directly. If we do not dictate him, then who will? Classical thought has long theorized immortality to be a curse, and a plague on the mind. Who will protect the frail common man when time takes its toll on America's mind, and something goes wrong? Or when he is caught up in the winds of change, and reacts less than favorably as Adams once claimed to witness on that fateful day on the docks of Boston? Even the Federalists have their wisdom, one supposes._

 _I love Alfred as any true patriot who has witnessed his devotion and forthrightness. But woe to the one who is foolish enough to ever mistake him as_ _human_ _._

Slowly, Roosevelt set the paper down. He put his head in his hands.

 _'_ _Jefferson was wrong. Alfred may not be human, but he's not some dangerous animal to be kept on a leash, either!'_

He slammed shut the folder, shoving it into a drawer with all of its conceited assumptions and arrogance. He didn't want to read any more.

Now that he knew where the Restraint Clause had come from, he was all the more determined to be rid of it.

Night had fallen. He hoped that Alfred would come back, and soon. He didn't want to start another manhunt.

* * *

 **Another chapter! Longer this time, so yay. Alfred fooling around some more, because why the hell not? The first draft for this chapter was actually a _lot_ more angsty, but I decided against it. There's plenty more angst to be had in later chapters, and I wouldn't want to waste it all too early.**

 **Not much history, except for maybe one thing. The American Revolution was not an especially violent one, when being viewed as a whole or compared to other revolutions (France, Russia, ect.). One of the most annoying misconceptions I hear is this idea that the entire East Coast was just full of battles and blazes of glory when it most certainly was _not_. It's like saying George Washington was some kind of amazing general, when he was really a _very bad tactician_. The colonists won because we used guerrilla warfare-type skirmishes against an army operating on some terribly outdated "Rules of War" that was far from its supplier, didn't know the terrain, and wore bright red.**

 **Thanks for all the favs, follows, and reviews! I promise I'm working on the next _That Which Makes Up The Land_ chapter. It's just taking longer for me trying to get more into one installment. Tell me what you thought of this in a review, pretty please?**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	10. Chapter 10

Day two, and still no Alfred. Roosevelt didn't bother sending anyone out this time.

Alfred didn't trust easily. That much had become clear over their short association, and perhaps that had been a well-founded instinct. It'd certainly been a while since anyone trusted him in return.

So Roosevelt would have to place his trust in Alfred. And hope he resurfaced soon. The sooner the better-they had things to accomplish.

He turned his attention to the vague outlines of his latest antitrust venture. It would be long in the coming, but absolutely worth it if he could get it past the planning stages. Big business were not meant to have so much say in government. Especially ones that barely toed to line of legality with their obvious monopolies. Government was not meant for the self-interested.

And someday that might even be true.

* * *

Another agent sighted, alone on the semi-busy street just blocks away from the White House.

America came up behind him, smoothly relieving him of his wallet. He'd return it later of course, with the contents completely undisturbed. But the opportunity was just too good to pass up. Maybe in the future he wouldn't leave his wallet poking halfway out of his back pocket like some willy-nilly tourist.

"What the-Thief! Stop that man!"

Oops. He was apparently getting rusty.

A well-meaning civilian took him roughly by the sleeve of his long jacket. America shook him off and took off into an alleyway.

A police whistle sounded off somewhere behind him. He took that as a sign that it was time to return 'home'.

He initiated his in-…intra-...intra-bordery-whatever-thing. Someone really needed to come up with a better name for it.

His pursuers were left alone, scratching their heads at an empty dead end with echoes of lightly mocking laughter bouncing off of the high brick and plaster walls.

* * *

An assistant slammed into Theodore Roosevelt's office, heaving as though he'd been running. "He's back!"

Roosevelt didn't need to ask who. He'd given explicit instructions to be informed the moment Alfred reappeared. He stood up, shoving the Canadian-originated letters sitting on his desk into his jacket. "Where?"

"The library."

Roosevelt didn't think he'd ever crossed the White House so quickly before.

The library was serenely lit with filtered sunlight, lending a peaceful air to a place that hardly saw any activity anyways. Alfred sat alone among a cluster of chairs near one of the windows, leaning back and twirling something shiny in his hands.

Roosevelt sat down across from him, close enough to be noticed but far enough to be unobtrusive. He didn't know where this sudden need for prudence came from, but ultimately decided to heed his instinct. He still didn't know what to expect. "I need to speak with you about something that you've been putting off for a long time."

No answer.

"Alfred, m'boy?"

The semi-immortal didn't appear to be paying attention. His gaze was strangely blank, and faraway. A silver letter opener danced in his hands, fliting back and forth with surprising dexterity.

Roosevelt suddenly felt uneasy, recalling what that Mister William's letter had told him and unable to stop from drawing conclusions. America was naturally prone to daydreaming. Even Thomas Jefferson had attested to as much. But there was still that wriggling suspicion. That gut-feeling of something not being right that warned him that it might be too late to save his dear Nation.

Still, America made no outward sign of actually seeing him.

Unable to take any more, the president snapped his fingers a few times. "I've heard of flighty but this is just ridiculous."

America inhaled sharply, snapping out of his strange trance with wide eyes as he slammed the letter opener back onto the coffee table it came from. The little implement clacked horribly as it gouged the finish of the table.

A long silence ensued. Roosevelt studied the damage done to the old, time-tested furniture before giving America an even look. "Are you going to tell me what that was?"

Alfred averted his gaze as though ashamed. "No." Then the moment was gone, and he leaned back with a causal ease that hadn't previously been there. "What did you want to talk about?"

Roosevelt frowned. However he allowed the subject to drop, as he drew out the opened envelope that had opened his eyes so. I received a letter recently from-"

America glimpsed the return address, and his expression closed. "From Canada."

"Yes." The president drew out the formal letter, and recited the words he was quickly coming to know by heart.

 _Mister President,_

 _This is a formal inquiry as to the American Anthropomorphic Representative's (Nation's) health and whereabouts. It has come to international attention that he has not met expectation by breaking his personal isolation in favor of attending to his responsibilities. Nor has he made any private attempt to contact another Anthropomorphic Representative (Nation) in order to maintain regular in-person contact with them._

 _Perhaps it is because you do not know._

 _Nations cannot be alone forever. We have long learned through trial and error that it inevitably drives our kind violently mad. As things stand, Mister United States is in great danger of this eventuality._

 _In light of the situation, the committee has agreed to override Mister United States's standing request of being left out of international affairs in favor of extending to him an invitation to the World Meeting (personal invitation enclosed). This letter has been sent to you in the hopes that you might convince him to preserve his mind and attend the next one that he is able. The annual schedule is copied on the back of the invitation._

 _Very Sincerely,  
Matthew Williams_

America had sunk lower and lower into his seat with every word. By the time Roosevelt was finished, he was half-way out of his chair. The first words out of his mouth were not promising ones, either. "I don't want to go. Too many Europeans."

"It says here that you _have_ to go," the president pointed out, "and that is my responsibility to make you attend."

"Will you?" America queried cautiously, as though he were afraid of the answer.

Theodore sighed. "You should know by now that I would not. It must be your choice, else there is little point." He offered the envelope. "There's something else in here for you."

America took it like he expected it to bite him. Bypassing the invitation, he withdrew the last folded piece of parchment, the one with his own human name in simple-yet-elegant lettering. He made no attempt to open it. "You have not read it?"

Roosevelt raised an eyebrow, pushing up his pince-nez with a sniff. "You're _far_ too old to have me going through your personal correspondence."

The western Nation seemed oddly warmed by this response. He slowly opened the letter, and silently read it through. Roosevelt was able to peek over the edge of the paper to see a short personal missive in looping letters and almost flowery language that bespoke a finer education.

He waited.

Eventually, America set the letter on the coffee table with an indescribable expression. He stood, his voice distant. "I need to go think. Excuse me."

The library door closed behind him with a finalizing boom. Theodore took up the abandoned letter.

 _Alfred,_

 _The likeliness of you reading this is demoralizingly slim. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking that has me writing to you again, as though there was some chance of repairing the relationship we had before you came to hate me._

 _But if by some miracle you_ _are r_ _eading this…Francis tells me that you haven't attended any meetings, and that most have yet to even see you in person. Others have told me that such a thing is unnatural. That Nations do not typically do this, and your continued absence only confirms their suspicions that you are too far gone, already._

 _Once upon a time we were as close as brothers could be. I wish we hadn't taken that bond for granted, for we may not have ended up in this situation._

 _Please, Alfred. Let us put the past behind us as our people have. I'm worried about you._

 _-Matthew_

* * *

 **Yaaaay, chapter. The next one should be up any minute so hold on a tic...**


	11. Chapter 11

_Matthew Williams,_

 _At the time of my writing this, I have only just read your letter. It will likely dismay you to know that I have reason to share your concerns. Alfred did not react well to this information. He has seldom left his room for much more than occasional nourishment or bathroom breaks. I do believe your letter got to him, somehow._

 _However this is not the first indication of strange behavior, which is one of the reasons I have for writing to you. His moods swing violently from one end of the spectrum to the other. Occasionally he stares off into nothing with a blank look the likes of which I have only seen on seasoned veterans._

 _The Civil War still weighs heavily his mind._

 _There is something else. Something that disturbs my most base instincts in a way that cannot be quite described. A dark, unbalanced quality that only surfaces in rare moments and lasts for a matter of seconds. But it worries me more than any of the other symptoms previously mentioned. Alfred would know what I was referring to, but will not speak of it. I must optimistically assume this to be something his own kind is more equipped to deal with. There is little comfort I can provide, even as his President._

 _It would be in everyone's best interests if we collaborated on this venture to get Alfred out into the world and socialized with others like him. If you seek to reconnect with your brother, as I suspect the case to be, then you are invited to come here to the White House and speak with him in person. I would suggest that you give no forewarning. Alfred might find out about your impending visit, and disappear. He's very good at that. I'll do my utmost to keep him in the same room as you for the length of at least a conversation when you arrive._

 _Apologies for the possible inconvenience-I could not get him across the border if I tried. This is the best I can do._

 _Very Sincerely,  
_ _ **Theodore Roosevelt  
**_ _President of the United States_

Canada stood up so suddenly that his desk chair tipped back onto the floor with a clatter.

He'd taken more than a few liberties when he sent a World Meeting invitation to his estranged brother, along with a personal letter imploring him to at least try to reconcile. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this. This was…

 _'_ _This is bad.'_

On one hand, he was happy to finally have a chance to see his brother. There was little enough for him to do here, anyways. He could slip away and no one would notice his absence for days. And with a foreign power's leader backing him up, there was literally no possible backlash from this end. But on the other hand…President Roosevelt's description of Alfred's behavior was not conducive to peaceful nights.

 _'_ _I have to tell Britain.'_

That's be what a dutifully loyal possession to the Crown would do. But still he found himself hesitating. It was England's idea in the first place to send a letter. But he had _not_ authorized the Meeting invitation. If he found out about it, there would be consequences.

 _'_ _Maybe I'll tell him_ afterwards _.'_

Better plan. A temporary fix for a problem he was _going_ to have to address later, but serviceable for now.

Despite his sudden sense of urgency, Canada forced himself to slow down for a moment. He didn't want to go in blind. He didn't know what to expect from an isolated Nation, even if it _was_ his brother. But who could he talk to…?

He could get a telegram to France in a day, and receive an answer by the end of the week. Francis was just old enough to possibly even be familiar with the situation.

 _'_ _I just hope I'm not too late.'_

* * *

Almost two weeks of scarcity, along with many more trips outside of the grounds than would make the strictly President comfortable, had lead him to believe that America had all but decided to cut off their tentatively formed bond entirely.

Hence his surprise when Theodore Roosevelt found Alfred waiting for him in his office one morning, reading through one of the many papers he'd scribbled his thoughts on to remember later.

Roosevelt stepped further inside the office, hand out to snatch the writing away from curious fingers. "Don't you know better than to read other peoples' documents, Alfred?"

"Mm." Alfred pulled the paper closer, avoiding the swipe. "Hold on."

"Whatever it is, it's not ready," the president fairly growled.

The Nation finally looked up, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "Really? 'Cause it seems like you've thought it through pretty well." He seemed reluctant to relinquish his hold, but did so anyways.

Roosevelt skimmed the page. It was a short rant about the sheer disregard to exceptional heritage sites, natural landscapes, and animal habitats that…

 _'_ _Oh.'_

"This is…something I've chewed over rather often," Roosevelt admitted. "In my travels across this great continent, I've seen wondrous things. Things that shouldn't be destroyed simply for their potential real estate value. With work, I believe that these things can be saved from those who would see these gifts exchanged for monetary value."

"You think so, huh…" But America looked thoughtful. It was a something, at least. "But what about progress? This kinda sound like…going backwards."

"Is it not progress to grow in morals and appreciation?" Roosevelt returned the tentative challenge with the philosophical equivalent of a thrown gauntlet. "To learn what is truly important by remembering what lead us here in the first place? Or is your version of progress the one that sends underpaid workers into the steel mills so that they might somehow get two pennies together and purchase bread for their families, while rich businessmen and bankers play at being cruel gods of greed? The cost of these small advancements we have made for the sake of industry are not so small. Underneath this age of amazing technological achievements, is an equivalently polluted underbelly of slums and decimated species. You should know that better than anyone."

America was silent.

"Food for thought," Roosevelt finished with a dismissive wave. "Now unless you've something else for me, I really must be getting to work. Congress is doggedly determined to bog me down-If only they could refocus their spiteful intent, we'd be ahead in every sense of the word!"

* * *

 **THERE! A double update. Because I know _I_ love double updates so perhaps some of you are of a similar opinion?**

 **HISTORY TIME!**

 **Make no mistake-Theodore Roosevelt was an avid hunter. He probably would've used Bambi's mom for food, and turned Cecil the Man-eater into a rug. However he wasn't the kind of hunter to be shooting buffalo from a moving train and leaving the carcasses to rot. Nor was he in favor of hunting species into extinction or inadvertently** ** _causing_** **extinctions through careless development. He also had a great appreciation for nature and the exceptional wonders of the Earth, and so worked hard to get the National Parks established and protected through what I think was called something like,** ** _'_** ** _The Antiquities Act'_** **.**

 **Thanks for all the favs, follows, and reviews everyone! They're awesome, of course, as always. Tell me what you thought in a review, pretty please?**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	12. Chapter 12

Canada spent the entire trip afraid for the future. He'd transferred in New York to a connection bound for Washington D.C. As far as he was concerned, there was no going back, now. He'd be there very soon. Crumpled in his hand was the brief telegram France had sent back, which did very little to allay his fears.

ALFRED ANXIOUS WHEN LAST SEEN STOP ISOLATION MAY HAVE MADE THINGS WORSE STOP DO NOT TRY TO FORCE THINGS STOP TREAD CAREFULLY STOP

-FRANCIS BONNEFOY

He wondered what France had meant, exactly, when he used the word 'anxious'. America could've been anxious for any number of things when they spoke. Not necessarily something to worry over, right?

But then again, Canada _had_ asked for advice. This is was Francis's answer, and he _never_ only meant one thing with his words.

And then there was the last time _he'd_ seen his brother…

 _"Oh, no. Mister 'Empire' over there summed it up quite nicely, I think. You hate me. He hates me. Everyone hates me. No one cares."_

 _Canada stopped, feeling as though he'd been stabbed through the chest by an especially blunt knife._ "Alfred-"

"Don't call me that," _America abruptly hissed, rearing to spear him with stormy eyes and a voice that scraped like dry branches being dragged across gravel. "You don't get to call me that."_

That exchange still haunted Canada. He'd tried to reconcile, but it was as though Alfred had heard something else entirely. There had been a misunderstanding somewhere in that brief conversation, and the effects could still be felt to this day.

France was probably right. America had been showing signs even then. Who knew how things would go now, after so many years of being without another Nation?

* * *

Alfred's face had finally become more prevalent in the White House again, and in almost as good spirits as he used to be with his interactions with the staff. He'd even begun playing with the children where before he'd actively avoided them almost as though fearing for their innocence and youth. Even now he was regaling Roosevelt's children with a story that involved dramatically reenacted stunts and galloping around in circles while swinging an imaginary lasso over his head out on White House lawn.

The president observed the idyllic scene through the windows of his office, and smiled. He never expected their relationship to blossom in this way, but ever since that morning in his office-something in Roosevelt's little impromptu speech about preserving the land had struck a chord, and opened new avenues of trust in both directions. Ones that were evident enough to have his family suddenly interacting with the generally private and untrusting Nation.

Kermit jumped onto Alfred's back, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The blond was promptly swarmed by children. One could hear their yells and laughter even from here.

The timing couldn't have been worse.

Someone knocked on his door. Cortelyou entered thankfully empty-handed. Usually the secretary's arrival heralded more paperwork and correspondence with reluctant or indecisive congressmen.

Roosevelt noticed the usually composed man's expression wavering, barely masking his nervousness. "Yes, Georgie?"

"Someone's here," Cortelyou supplied a little breathlessly. "Says he's Canadian, but…" then he hesitated.

The president began to feel impatient. "But what?"

"Forgive me, Sir…this man looks a lot like Alfred."

Theodore Roosevelt felt himself straighten. "Send him in-I've been waiting to meet this one for weeks, now."

Roosevelt wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't what he saw as his eyes first met Canada's. Startlingly deep violet irises on a face that shared essentially the same structure as his brother's. His hair was just a subtle shade different in color, and longer with softer consistency. Perhaps he put product in it. His suit was tailored with a touch of Europe in its cut, and nigh-immaculate.

All in all, the polar opposite of America. However he somehow managed to maintain the vague sense of being a mirror image.

His handshake was firm enough to be respected, but far from an unspoken challenge. "Hello, Mr. President. I'm Ca-er, Matthew Williams."

"Hello, Matthew," Roosevelt crossed over to the liquor cabinet, and reached for the rye whiskey. Far from a mint julep, unfortunately, but he knew today would pass easier with some alcohol to help it along. "Whiskey?" he offered, holding up the decanter for emphasis.

"No, thank you." Canada shifted, rubbing the cuff of his sleeve nervously. Theodore caught impatience in his tone. "Where is Alfred?"

The president waved at the window, where Alfred was still with the children.

Canada looked out, and breathed in sharply. His expression was unguardedly longing. "He looks…better, than when I last saw him."

"Make no mistake," Roosevelt warned. "He's still volatile. And I cannot presume to know how he feels about you."

"Of course not," Canada sighed. "I fear the worst. But I have to hope there's a way to salvage this. He's…we were close, once."

Roosevelt was heartened by Canada's reasoning. Not out of political necessity, though that has undoubtedly crossed his mind, but out of yearning for a connection. "There is something I must ask, before Alfred comes in and inevitably sees you…"

"He'll sense my presence at some point," Canada interjected quietly. "He may already know I'm here."

The president adjusted his pince-nez. "But you don't know that for sure. Now back to my question-How do you plan to go about this?"

Canada looked out the window again, to see that the children had gone inside. Now Alfred was alone on the lawn.

And he was staring straight up at the window, straight at Canada. His expression was far from happy.

"I'm going to tell him exactly how I feel," Canada said, not flinching from his twin's gaze. "Sugared words are wasted on Alfred-he's too blunt for them."

"Good." Roosevelt was relieved at this. The best approach was an honest one. Especially in this case. He leaned forward to make sure Alfred could see him through the window as well, and beckoned for the wayward Nation to come up. Then he clasped his hands together and mouthed, _'_ _please'_ so that it couldn't be taken as a direct order.

Thank God, Alfred began for the steps.

* * *

He should've known when he got that peculiar feeling-the same one he used to get when England was on his soil after the Declaration of Independence was signed. The same one he'd gotten just before meeting Prussia for the first time. Another Nation was on his land.

And not just any Nation, but his brother. Canada, the golden boy of the British Empire. The one who'd personally carried the torch that set the first building aflame and taken his sight for three horrible months to show just how much he hated America.

So why was he here? He didn't need to make his stance any clearer. To be honest he was tempted to jump to the next state over and not come back until the feeling of something foreign nearby was gone.

But then again…Theodore was up there with him. And he didn't look angry or anything…Not to mention his silent call to the oval office that wasn't quite a direct order, but still rather insistent.

He owed Roosevelt the benefit of the doubt, especially after all the trouble this president had gone through just to keep his end of the agreement.

Resigned, he trudged towards the stairs.

* * *

The President of the United States had lead him to a library to wait. It wasn't large by any means, but neither was it laughably small for a personal collection. There were a few chairs and low tables scattered about with lamps, for when the rays of sunlight coming through the windows weren't enough to light the room. Canada couldn't bring himself to sit down. It was too uncomfortable a situation to even pretend to relax.

He'd been brave when Roosevelt asked him what his plan was. But to be completely honest, he wasn't even sure what he'd say. It'd been so long…what if this exchange went sour just like the last one? He'd never see Alfred again!

A muffled argument was happening just beyond the door. He didn't have to guess what it was about. Eventually, the voices died down again. The door creaked open, and Canada spun to face whoever was coming in, and froze.

America blinked, as though not sure he was real. Then his expression became unreadable as he closed the door firmly behind him. He made no move to come closer.

"Al-America." Canada stumbled over the name, remembering the last time he'd uttered it in the other's presence. "It's, uh…" He trailed off helplessly, and bit his lip as his diplomacy and vocabulary failed him for the second time.

Surprisingly, America spoke into the dead air between them. "What political nonsense landed you here in the first place, and how do we make this obligatory exchange go as quickly as possible?"

Canada shifted uncomfortably. "It's not anything like that I just-came here. To see you. Mr. Roosevelt said you got my letter…?"

"I did." America's voice was flat. "But I know better than to take fancy words on paper at face value."

"Well, it's true. I _am_ worried about you." The northernmost twin spread his hands. "And to be honest, this exchange is doing nothing to ease my fears."

For a long time, America was silent. His face was blank of emotion. "Why do you suddenly care about how I'm doing?"

"I never stopped caring."

 _"_ _Bullshit."_

Canada stopped short. America was glaring at him now, fists clenched.

"Don't lie for the sake of politics," America continued mercilessly, and bitterly. "You know you never forgave me for York…I only wish I was actually _there_ when it happened. Then maybe I could understand it a bit more."

"You…weren't there?" Canada managed. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "But…you _knew_ , right? Before it happened?"

"Yeah, I knew." The western Nation's voice was dark. "Then I was ordered to my room, and not allowed to come out for attacking the Secretary of War."

Canada shook his head, not wanting to believe it.

"But I'm far from guiltless, of course," America added sardonically. "They told me it was a good idea over and over…after a while I believed them. I even cursed your militias for being so successful in repelling Dearborn's forces. The Battle of New Orleans came a bit late, but I celebrated regardless."

Canada had to look away. "I'm sorry this happened."

America snorted. "Sure you are."

"You must hate me."

This gave America pause. "…What makes you say that?"

"I hated you for a little bit." Canada rubbed his suit lapel. "But after your capital was on fire I was just…sad. 'Eye for an eye', Britain had said. But I still never felt quite… _right_ , about it." He looked back up to face his brother square in the face. "Perhaps we should've talked. Or at least argued face-to-face before any of it ever happened. I just let Arthur handle most of the negotiations and you…you refused to see me afterwards."

This time it was America who looked away. "Britain said you would shoot me as soon as look at me."

"And you believed him?" Canada had to raise an eyebrow.

"I had no reason to think otherwise," America retorted evenly. "You personally started the fire that burned my city almost to the ground."

Canada blinked, and then slowly shook his head. "No I didn't."

America looked taken aback, his expression one of surprise and skepticism. "But I _saw_ you in front of the White House. You even had a torch. You were laughing."

"At first I was eager, but then I saw your face in one of the windows. In the end I couldn't go through with it," Canada admitted. "My own men mocked me for being gutless. My torch went to someone else. I…left."

"You left…" America echoed faintly. He leaned back, and slid down the wall. "So you never…"

Slowly, Canada went to his twin. He sat down, sliding down the wall just as his brother had so that they were right next to each other, and only a few feet away. "I want us to be brothers again. Being alone like this isn't healthy."

America put his face in his hands. "It's too late for me. I've already-…" he cut himself off and shook his head.

"No it's not," Matthew insisted. He reached out to touch America's shoulder, and despaired when the western Nation tensed and shied away from his hand. "Whatever it is you did the past few years, it's not too late. _Please_ , Alfred."

America only shrunk in on himself further. "You should hate me. It's easier that way."

"I can't hate you," Canada said. "And it's not easy for me to know you're going insane from isolation just beyond my borders when there's something I can do about it."

After a long beat of silence, America spoke. His voice was quiet, and shaky. "Matthew, I'm so sorry…"

Canada had to blink tears away. "I'm sorry too."

When he reached out a second time, America didn't inch away again. Instead he leaned into the touch, like he did when they were small. When they had no one but each other to turn to for support.

There was a quiet sniffle. Canada didn't allude to it, and simply sat there with his brother, content to remain this way indefinitely.

It'd be a long time before he was ready to let go, either.

* * *

 **Alright, all I have left to finish is the epilogue/last chapter. Then I might do a one-shot about Alfred's first world meeting. Then the first HEAVILY EDITED chapter of _Bad Medicine_ will appear soon after. **

**Not much history, but plenty of angsty brotherness and stuff. And yaaaaay, some problems resolved!** **Thanks for all the favs, follows, and reviews! Feel free to tell me how awfully I botched this with a review!**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


	13. Epilogue

"Alright, I'm headed out."

Roosevelt looked up from his desk to see America in travel clothes with a small rucksack in hand, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and his favorite western hat.

"No six guns?" The president raised waggled his eyebrows in mock surprise.

The western Nation rolled his eyes and patted his hip. "They're under the coat. It's better to have them be a surprise if there comes a time where I need to show 'em off."

"Hopefully they'll _stay_ under that coat." Roosevelt stood and offered a hand. "You be careful up there-and where will you be if I have to find you?"

"Just past the border of Michigan's upper peninsula," America answered promptly. "Canada has a cabin right near the great lakes on his side that he invited me to."

"That's good," Roosevelt said seriously. "You needed to get out more…But there is _one_ thing I'd like you to do before you go."

Suddenly America was suspicious. "Which is…?"

Roosevelt was careful to keep a straight face. "Read through this, and tell me what you think of it." He picked up a piece of parchment from his desk, and offered it.

America took it with a curious frown, and scanned the words Roosevelt had slaved over the past three days, trying to get the wording just right.

 _The Restraint Clause:_

 _The anthropomorphic representation of these United States of America is bound to obey any direct order from the President of the United States._ _ **that falls within the following parameters:**_

 ** _-It must be a spoken command._**

 ** _-The phrase must begin with the Nation's full, formal name, United States of America._**

 ** _-It cannot cause the being that is subject to this document physical pain, or stress his psyche to the point of breaking._**

 ** _-It is disallowed to rob Alfred of any rights protected by the Constitution of the United Sates._**

 ** _-Alfred cannot be forbidden from directly or indirectly communicating with another of his own kind._**

 ** _-When lives are at stake, Alfred may fight past the threshold of obedience for the sake of eliminating or escaping the threat._**

America's jaw dropped, fingers running over the aged parchment's new additions that were written in a much more unmistakable and less flourishing hand. "This…you actually _found_ it?"

"It wasn't easy," Roosevelt lamented. "Someone had gone to quite a bit of trouble in hiding it."

"Prob'bly Thomas," Alfred muttered, tone laden with old resentment. "He never quite treated me the same after…that night. They sprung this on me, already signed into law."

Roosevelt's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "The law is steeped in our revered idea of John Locke's social contract, which requires mutual consent. Forgive me for saying, but quite frankly the very idea of taking away your free will without even informing you first was rather hypocritical."

"That's what I said," America sighed, giving the document back. "Jefferson just told me that I'm not _human_ enough…and that the law was better decided by God-fearing mortals than an ever-changing representation." His voice cracked with emotion. "I felt so _betrayed_ …But it was the one of the things the Democrat-Republicans demanded before they were willing to sign the Constitution in the first place. John told me it was for my own good-that I'd understand one day. And Benjamin, he just…got that _look_ on his face…the one that meant he was upset, but wasn't going to actually say anything about it because the Union wasn't going to happen without compromises."

Roosevelt felt his nails digging into his palm from anger. He'd revered the Founding Fathers since he was a little boy. Role models-brave scholastic revolutionaries that managed the impossible, and placed their mark on the world to such a degree that very few ever could. But the ones America described, and the ones characterized by their own writings…

Fallible. _Human._

"Benjamin asked me to forgive them," Alfred continued softly. "Said that they were just scared, and that they'd come to their senses eventually. I told him that I would always love them unconditionally as I do all my people…But I could never bring myself to forgive them completely."

The president was silent for a long time, choosing his words carefully. "That time of your life is over, now. You are now as free as any of our citizens, and I expect you to make the most of it. And I hope those prickly old delegates will someday stop rolling in their graves and realize how proud they should be of the man you've become since then."

America's smile was small, but genuine.

"Now sign this thing and get going," Roosevelt pushed a pen into the western Nation's hands. "I have things to do and you have places to be."

"S-sign it, right." America looked between the pen and paper as though scarcely believing it. He quickly did so, muttering so quietly that Roosevelt almost couldn't hear.

 _"_ _I finally have a choice."_

Roosevelt pretended not to hear. "Now get going. And bring back something for the kitchen."

"Will do, Boss."

America turned and blurred into nonexistence like a mirage, a strangely warm current that came from nowhere making the now-open office door sway.

President Roosevelt stood in that suddenly empty office for a long moment, and smiled. That was one problem taken care of, at least.

* * *

 **And so ends this story, with all the plots and subplots mostly resolved...except for that one thing which I hinted at that will be addressed later on in another story.**

 **Thank you all for the support! So what is your FINAL VERDICT on this multi-chapter historical-ish undertaking of mine?**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


End file.
